His apartment was way smaller than mine. Actually, it was barely bigger than my closet. Massage therapists must make shit. But I didn’t comment. Instead,
I wondered where he had Houdini’d a massage table in this place.
As if he could read my mind, he reached into an alcove between the futon and his kitchen table-slash-bar and pulled out the table.
I helpfully moved the coffee table in front of the bathroom door and turned around.
“Uh, that’s where I was going to go while you changed.”
“OH! Well, I just thought I’d do it clothed, this time.”
I smiled at him.
He bit the inside of his cheek and looked at the floor.
What? Did I look that easy?
“Right. Of course, I mean, this is different, and…you’d probably feel more…well…” he gestured to my torso and hips…or rather, what my grandmother referred to as my ‘bathing suit area’…”comfortable?”
“Yeah. I mean, not that you aren’t professional.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m totally, totally professional,” he said scissoring his arms across each other to cut out any thoughts I might have at his being less than professional.
Fuck my luck.
“Yeah,” he said, slapping his hands on the front of his thighs. I climbed on. I noticed once I was up there, that he had held his hand out to help me up, but I’d missed it.
“Thanks,” I said, anyway.
He rested his hand on my ponytail holder and I told him it was OK to remove it.
Then he started massaging my head.
He hadn’t done that before.
This was foreplay.
He started by just playing with my hair, his long fingers combing it while the tips of his digits lightly brushed my scalp. Then he was scratching, but not with his nails. No, he didn’t really have any. I didn’t think he bit them, so he must have cut them really short, because all I could feel were fingertip muscles.
He worked from my forehead back to my crown and down to my neck, rubbing gently along either side of my spine. Then he switched to the sides of my head. I’d never had a massage like this in the spa. I mean, sure they rubbed my head, but not this…um…sensually.
Next, he added his palms to the mix, and each palm press preceded his fingers curling in to grasp strands of hair, which he lightly pulled away from my scalp.
Fucking heaven in a mini-apartment.
Then pulled harder.
“Tell me if I do it too hard,” he said, the innuendo as clear as an erection.
Speaking of which, I was regretting that our respective positions didn’t allow for proper assessment of his level of sexual arousal.
He stopped the hair pulling and moved to my shoulders, rubbing gently at first, seeming to diagnose where the worst spots were, and using friction to heat the muscles.
“I’d like to give you deep tissue, but I don’t know if you’ve ever done that before…it might…be a little too much to handle tonight.”
“Uh…” I said. “No, I’m totally game…if you are…” Please be talking about sex…please be talking about sex…
Where did Not Easy Swan go? Huh?
I made her take Prude and The Rules Swan for an ice cream.
Good. ‘Bout time.
He chuckled again, and moved on to my back, using his thumbs to work the knots out.
Did I say that out loud? I decided not to dwell on it.
As he got to my waist, he turned so his hips were next to my head.
Don’t do it Swan! Don’t look! If you get up, he’ll know what you’re doing!
So, what the fuck’s he gonna do? Stop massaging and fuck me? Sounds like I can’t lose!
Sure, or he’ll get weirded out, stop and drive you home.
Fuck my life.
Wait, is that the—oh, Holy Chakra Batman! I wanted to levitate off the table it felt so good.
He was working the heels of his hands deep into my lumbar area using firm pressure, his fingers just barely grazing my ass as he finished each stroke.
Suddenly he stopped.
Oh, apparently I hadn’t imagined rising off the table. I had actually been lifting my hips as he…
I lowered them as imperceptibly as possible.
“Isabella?” he said.
Uh-oh, that’s serious-talk, Swan.
“Yeah!” I said, my voice a little strained.
“Are there any places you need for me to work? I forgot to ask again.”
You can rub my gluteus maximus, I thought.
“Um,” he said. “You want me to massage your ass?”
“Heh heh!” I lamely laughed, hoping he’d take it as a joke…or not.
“Isabella,” he said quietly, “if you want an ass-massage, all you have to do is ask.”
“Well…um, sure! I mean, if it’s not any, um…you know…I just don’t want to put you out or anything…”
“Oh, it won’t put me out at all. As a matter of fact, I’ve wanted to, well…do that, since that first day when I saw it…naked.”
I felt a bit of wetness trickle past my clit.
Why? Why didn’t you strip, you fucking whore?
“Can you do that…um, with me wearing…uh jeans, and, you know…uh stuff?”
Good job, Swan! Referring to sexy panties as “stuff” is sure to get him in the mood!
“I can do as much or little as you want,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Well…I think that it would probably be best if you…”
Shit, I so want a naked ass-massage.
Yes, yes, but that would require you to actually, you know, get fucking naked!
I’m not seven…I’m twenty-seven! I think we’ve moved past rhyming warnings!
Fine. Compromise on panties-only with the option to move forward to no-panties if it goes well?
“Sorry, just thinking it though.”
“You can just…remove my jeans, and leave the rest, OK?”
“Um, well, if that’s not—”
He put his hand at my waist. “Lift your hips,” he said, in a soft, raspy voice.
Why was he whispering?
Shit, his hands were working the button at the top of my jeans. It popped open and I felt even wetter at the almost direct contact with my skin. My innerbitch voice reminded me that the only places he’d touched like that all evening had been above my shoulders.
Then, he held the waistband as he pulled the zipper down with his other hand. I think my pussy melted. Fucking lit-porn! Why are zippers so loaded?
Then, his hands were tugging at the top of my jeans, trying to work them off my hips without pulling my panties down.
“Can you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, balancing with my forehead in the head rest and my knees on the table, reaching down and holding my panties and shimmying a little as he pulled my jeans from my hips.
“Oh, your…nnnng…ass…” he groaned.
I barely registered that my jeans had hit the floor before his hands were on my backside, pushing gently, squeezing as he pulled away.
I bit my lip hard and put my head back into the headrest and closed my eyes.
Having his hands (fingers!) on my derriere was enough to send a jolt of need straight to my vag. I leaned into his hands without willing myself to do so.
This is getting embarrassing, Swan! Control your fucking hips! He’s going to think you’re a slut, fuck you once, and never call you again!
I don’t give a shit. I’d rather have one good fuck now, than six months of dancing around the topic and never getting properly laid! So STFU!
He used every part of his hands to work each inch of my backside. He rubbed his thumbs from the crest to the small of my back, retracing his path with agile fingers. He massaged the outside of my hips, bringing his hands down to the place where my ass met the tops of my thighs.
OH…what was…? He had gripped an ass cheek in each hand and pulled very carefully up and out, repeating the motion over and over…so…oh, fuck his thumbs were so close to…just…like, less than one inch from my aching…weeping…
Shit, he was touching my wet panties, but he wasn’t stopping…
I lay very still…OK, I might have spread my legs a little. I am very accommodating.
His thumbs started working along the edges of my panties, between my legs, right in the no man’s land between thighs and labia. Or he might have been touching my labia…a little.
Fuck, all I knew for certain was that he was definitely touching my wet panties, because every time he pulled away to start again, I felt the icky cold feeling where his fingers had been.
He didn’t speak or even breathe audibly. I wanted to moan or let him know how fucking turned on I was (as if wet panties can tell a lie) but I was afraid he’d stop, so I wisely kept my mouth shut.
Then, he did stop.
“What did I do?” I parroted his words from earlier.
“Nothing. I just need to ask you something,” he said. His voice sounded strained.
I groaned. Was this really the time for conversation?
“I want to um…try some other…massage-techniques…not professional ones. Actually, they’re pretty unprofessional, but I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage…I mean, I haven’t even taken you out on a date, yet…stupid, stupid!” he said, and I rolled to my side to see him pulling at the hair above his forehead.
I reached up and grabbed one of his wrists, pulling it to my lips and giving it a kiss on the underside before moving to his hands.
It felt right and proper to thank the body parts that had brought me such pleasure already and that, I sincerely hoped, would continue to bring me pleasure…for, well…as long as I could get him to let me stay here.
At some point, my kisses turned to sensual licking and sucking.
Shit. How did that happen?
I looked up at him and his eyes were rolled into the back of his head, so I stole a glance down to his…
Fuck me with a pole vault.
And something else…girthy.
I would have swallowed his finger if it could have gone down my throat. As it was, I only gagged for a moment.
“Are you OK?” He asked.
“Yeah!” I said, coughing. “I was just thinking…”